The Man Who Can't Be Moved
by Bookworm045
Summary: No one has ever encountered a situation such as this before. Draco Malfoy has positioned himself outside an ice cream parlour and declared he won't move until the girl he loves forgives him. One-shot. Fluff.


**A/N: So obviously this is very heavily based off the song The Man Who Can't Be Moved by The Script, which to be completely honest, I hadn't heard until I came across it through some weird YouTube inception where I started off watching videos about hedgehogs and ended up watching that video and writing a one-shot. I don't own The Script or the song or the plot of this story or Harry Potter and that world. Warning: This is incredibly fluffy.**

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He could almost picture her eleven years previously, her hair bushy and uncontrollable, her eyes alight with excitement, thrilled curiosity the dominating emotion on her face. He could imagine her staring up at the sign and trying to determine if she had enough time to go in and get a spot of ice cream in between shopping for her school supplies.

Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was the first place Draco had seen Hermione, back when they were eleven years old, and the worst thing he'd done to her was sneer and shove her out of his way. Standing there, eleven years later, he could still clearly recall the defiant expression she'd worn as she pushed him back before stalking off, ice cream cone in hand.

And even now, he was still just a little bit impressed with her nerve.

Draco shrugged at no one in particular before throwing his bag down on the cobblestones a foot from the entrance of the ice cream shop and settling himself down next to it, leaning his head against the brick wall.

It was a few hours later, and he sense someone's presence in front of him. Draco took his time in dragging his eyelids open, gazing up at Florean who looked positively bewildered.

"Can I help you, boy?" the elderly man asked.

"No thank you," Draco replied politely.

"What is it you're doing?"

Draco considered this. Sitting out here was one of his more impulsive decisions. But the answer came to him and he was quick to say it out loud. "Waiting for the girl I love."

Florean stared at him for a moment longer before pursing his lips and nodding once, clearly understanding that Draco Malfoy wasn't one who moved when you told him to.

And Draco stayed there all through the evening, staring down the passerby who dared to give him funny looks. Most merely looked curious and if Draco was being rational, he couldn't exactly blame them. He was sure he was a sight to see.

Six days later and Draco was slightly irritated with people in general. Three different reporters—that blasted Skeeter one of them—had shown up to ask him questions and take his picture. Many people had offered him money with condescending expressions on their faces, as if it was some great thing to imagine that a Malfoy was broke and homeless.

As if he hadn't decided to do this to himself, he scoffed. To his right, the bell of the ice cream shop jangled as Florean stepped out to hand Draco the _Prophet_. The old man had grown used to his presence, and let him read the paper once he was finished. He'd even given Draco a bowl of ice cream the day previously.

Draco smirked at the picture of him on the upper right hand corner of the first page. The _Prophet_ had started a daily segment of him three days into his wait.

_Many women know that their male counterparts haven't the best track record of romantic gestures by way of apology. It seems they've got something to learn from one man who goes by the name of Draco Malfoy. He has spent this past week waiting outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, the place he first met Hermione Granger. How long will it be before Miss Granger takes this sorry man back?_

There. If he'd been worried she hadn't known what he was doing, he wasn't any longer. Reading the Prophet was a daily thing for her and the two lumps she called friends. She'd know.

And if Draco knew her as well as he thought he did, she'd be down here by the end of the next day.

"Hey, Gin?"

The pretty red head looked up from her toe nails, which she was currently painting an eye-catching violet, turning her attention on her curly-haired friend who had paused in her own toe-nail-painting to speak.

"Yes?" Ginny asked, wondering if she was imagining the tone of suspicion that was hidden behind Hermione Granger's casual tone.

Hermione pursed her lips, looking as if she was trying to find a good question to ask. "Does the _Prophet_ ever cancel your subscription?"

Yep. She definitely sounded suspicious, Ginny mused, horror slowly dawning on her. She worked to keep a neutral expression on her face and forced an airy laugh through her lips. "No, Hermione. Of course not. Why?"

Hermione looked away from her deep blue nail varnish she'd been staring at to meet Ginny's gaze straight on. "Because I haven't received a paper in three days. Why do you think that is?"

Ginny gulped at the dangerous tone her best friend's voice had adopted by the end of her question. "It must be a mistake," She persisted, proud of her casual tone.

Just as Hermione was about to speak—probably curse Ginny to Cuba for lying—two _pop_ noises interrupted her, and suddenly feet could be heard in the kitchen. Ginny's brother was loudly proclaiming that he was absolutely famished, while Harry was telling Ginny about how it'd been incredibly difficult to catch the owl this day as opposed to the days previous.

Ginny turned her gaze from the door that lead into the kitchen back to Hermione who had one eyebrow raised, an expectant expression on her face. The red haired girl offered a weak smile and it took all of three seconds before Hermione was up and through the doors.

Ginny Weasley supposed she should go help her brother and boyfriend out, but judging by the yelps both boys were emitting, it wouldn't be a good idea to get involved.

And with that resolution, she turned back to her toes and continued on her way with painting them.

Ten minutes later found Harry, Ron, and Ginny all crowded on the tiny couch in Ginny's sitting room, staring up at Hermione who was pacing, four days' worth of _Prophet_s clutched in one hand, her wand in the other.

"I can_not_ believe you three would conspire against me to steal my news papers!" Hermione was ranting, though Ginny supposed she didn't need to listen. It sounded like her friend was starting up on the same lecture she'd just given twice.

And then Hermione stopped pacing, right in the center of the room and turned to look at them. _That_ was worrying. Hermione usually went on for a good twenty minutes before she cooled off and inevitably forgave them for whatever misdemeanor they'd committed in her eyes.

"What was it that you didn't want me to see?" She asked the three of them and there were three simultaneous gasps before Harry let out an unconvincing 'nothing'.

"Honest, Hermione," Ron said nervously, "It was just a prank. Nothing important in there."

"I'll decide that for myself, thank you," Hermione said snippily before dropping the papers on Ginny's coffee table and spreading out the most recent one. She took in the headliner (**ALBERT RUNCORN SUSPECTED OF UNJUST MEANS OF GATHERING INFORMATION ON DEFENDANTS**) with apparent boredom.

Hermione made to turn the page, but Ron let out a small noise of relief just a second too soon, just a bit too loud, and she paused, glancing up at them and letting her eyes dart back and forth between the guilty trio. They stayed quite silent and Hermione scoffed, smoothing out the front page and looking at it more thoroughly. Ginny sighed resignedly when she saw Hermione's brown eyes widen as the older girl caught sight of the bit about Malfoy in the corner.

"We didn't know if you were ready to see it," Ginny explained quietly.

"No, no," Hermione said faintly, "It's fine." Her eyes didn't leave the picture of Malfoy.

Abruptly, she stood up.

"Are you going to go forgive him?" Harry asked, a tinge of reluctant hopefulness in his tone. Malfoy may have been the world's greatest prat, but Hermione had been much more subdued since their breakup and Harry could hardly stay in denial and call it a coincidence.

"I'm going to go hex his bits to the side of his face," Hermione corrected, and before anyone could say anything about how that was not the best of ideas, she was gone.

"You…you don't think there's _actually_ a hex that does that, right Harry?" Ron asked in a rather meek voice a few moments later.

"I have no idea if such a hex exists," Harry confirmed, "But if it does, I can guarantee you that Hermione knows it."

Another beat of silence passed in which Ron and Harry stared at each other before the implications of that sunk in.

The two men gulped nervously.

Two days later found Draco amused because he'd been able to frustrate the Auror who had been sent to get him to leave his spot. The poor, pitiful bloke had stormed off, leaving Draco to stay comfortably on the cobble stone ground, staring at the stones in front of him.

The sound of loud clicking heels penetrated into his head and he watched as a pair of simple black peep toe shoes entered his line of sight.

Draco Malfoy had long since learned to ignore people when they walked right up to him. They seemed to be under the impression that he would answer their mundane questions, and to be completely honest, he would rather stick pins in his eyes.

But when one of the two dainty feet in his line of vision left before coming back at full speed right into his shin, he couldn't help but look up.

Vague surprise registered on his face at the sight of Hermione standing above him, looking less than pleased. He'd thought she wouldn't come. It had taken her longer than he'd suspected it would.

"Up, Malfoy," She hissed darkly and when he hesitated, her eyes darkened with ill-disguised anger and she ground out a sharp '_now_' that had him on his feet faster than one could say 'muggle'.

Draco took the time to memorize her features, idly realizing that his memory hadn't done her justice. He'd always loved the way she looked angry, and right now she was furious.

That thought crossing his mind, he took a hasty step back, wincing when his back hit the brick of the building behind him.

"Move, Malfoy," Hermione demanded, "Go home."

"No," he retorted, crossing his arms and gathering that feigned courage he liked to use when facing the greater dangers of life. "I won't leave this spot until you take me back."

There was a beat of silence and Draco hardly dared to hope that it'd been that easy.

"_You_ broke up with_ me_!" She all but shrieked before calming considerably and sending forced smiles at the staring passerby.

"I made a mistake," He said simply, "And I'll be here waiting if you ever forgive me for it."

He knew he was playing dirty, guilt-ing her into possibly saying that she did just to get him to leave, and he knew he was getting to her by the fact that her angry expression faltered for just a second.

"I wouldn't hold your breath," She said finally before whirling around and stalking away, disappearing easily amongst the throngs of people.

Draco blew out a huge gust of air and sat back down, continuing to read about that idiot Runcorn.

Weeks passed and Hermione had half a mind to quit her job and just hide out in her home. She was more than a little irritated at the fact that she had complete strangers who went up to her and told her to take Malfoy back—the prat. No one seemed to care that he'd been the one to break up with her and that she'd been the one to spend three days crying in her flat.

Not that anyone knew that last bit. Save for Ginny who'd brought her food three times a day.

Hermione sighed when someone knocked rapidly on her office door. If it was someone who wanted to give her their input on her ended relationship with Malfoy, she'd blow up her desk and escape through the Floo.

She was about to tell whomever it was to just piss off and go bother someone else when her office door burst open, the person in question clearly tired of waiting.

Hermione took in the man's tall frame and his elegant black robes that probably cost the same it would to feed a small village, his hardened pointed features, his steel-coloured eyes, his long, hatefully-perfect platinum blonde hair. The girl leaned back in her desk chair, crossing her arms and legs and setting her best defiant expression on her face.

"Mr Malfoy," Hermione said, her sweet voice positively dripping with venom, "What a pleasure."

"I cannot say I feel the same," Lucius replied and Hermione scoffed. At least _she_ pretended to try.

"What do you want?" She asked bluntly, figuring if he wasn't going to play nice, she wouldn't either.

"I have no idea what my son sees in you," the man replied, looking almost bewildered. "Unmanageable hair, plain features, bossy attitude, rude, complete disrespect for society and it's way of life."

"Not to mention a Mudblood," Hermione charmed in, her voice so fake she supposed Barbie would be jealous. That word rolled off her tongue quite easy despite the disgust she felt for the term.

Lucius nodded his head once in acknowledgement but didn't dare agree with her in the heart of the Ministry's Magical Law Enforcement.

"Go to my son," Lucius clipped out finally, looking as if it had pained him greatly to utter the words, "I don't care what you say to him, just get him off that property and out of the press."

"If I were to do as such," Hermione said emphatically, "It would hardly be because you told me to. _Sir_." She tacked on at the end in a mocking voice. The blonde man's fingers twitched, as if he wanted to kill her via strangulation, but his expression remained ever so smooth.

"Why not find him a high-society pureblood girl and have them make nice?" Hermione questioned, almost genuinely curious. It did not seem like the man she knew and hated, Lucius coming to her and asking her to take his son back.

"Believe me, I tried," Lucius muttered before raising his voice. "It does not matter. As much as it pains me to say this, he wants you for his bride."

"He _broke up_ with me," Hermione said flatly. "I'm hardly being unfair in this situation."

"I told him to break up with you," Lucius replied airily, waving a hand in dismissal, as if the matter at hand was _no big deal_.

Well, to Hermione it was a huge deal.

"_What?_" She demanded, her voice incredulous.

"I convinced him that you would be unhappy should he ask you to marry him. You would not like the galas with other members of high society, you would not be happy being Lady Malfoy."

"And he…" Hermione's voice was very faint until it trailed off into nothing. She felt like bursting into tears, but she would hardly do that with this vile man in front of her.

"Leave," she said darkly and quite surprisingly, he complied, exiting the room with all the air as if he'd chosen to do so of his own accord and she hadn't ordered him about.

Penning a quick note to her secretary, telling her she would be taking the next few days off, Hermione Apparated directly out of her office and into her flat, kicking off her blasted peep toe shoes and collapsing onto the couch. She stared blankly at that day's prophet, at the picture of Draco, whose face looked slightly slimmer, his hair a bit longer, his skin a tad less pale. He was drenched, and Hermione painfully recalled the horrible storm that had taken place the day previous.

_And another week of Draco Malfoy: The Man Who Can't Be Moved_ _is wrapping up, dear readers. His presence outside the ice cream parlour has become a regular fixation, but we cannot help but wonder how many days it will be before Miss Granger forgives him?_

Tears didn't come, but Hermione hardly moved from her spot for the rest of the night.

Draco grunted, half asleep, shifting on his poor quality Muggle sleeping bag, trying to grasp a few more seconds of rest even as the sun poked and prodded at his eyelids. All around him he could hear people walking up and down the cobble stone roads, on their way to work, run errands, explore. Few stopped and bothered him now. Everyone was used to seeing him there, never moving from his spot. Most felt sorry for him—waiting for the girl who was arguably the most stubborn witch in the Wizarding World. Some wondered what on earth it was that he'd done. A couple romantics couldn't help but hope that one day someone would do a big gesture such as this one for them.

Cynics called him delusional.

Draco supposed he was delusional. He was trying very hard to keep as optimistic as one such as himself could be, but as the time passed, it became increasingly difficult. He missed Hermione. And his bed.

He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to see pity in peoples' eyes as they passed by. He heard the paper drop onto the ground next to him and he could feel people passing him to enter the ice cream shop.

It was mid afternoon (Draco could tell because in his efforts to not move a muscle that day, he could feel the beginnings of a sun burn coming on) and his sleeping bag was almost completely dry from the storm the day before, when he heard the most peculiar sound.

Draco, having been in that spot for many days, had gotten quite used to the noises that were made each and every day of the week, and the loud, rapid clicking of heels against cobble stone was not at all common. It sounded like someone was _running_.

No one ran in Diagon Alley. There were too many people and the streets were hardly the most stable.

More strange than that, he could hear his name being called as the shoes got closer to him. He thought it sounded like Hermione, but he hardly dared to hope.

"_Draco!_" A voice exclaimed breathlessly from right in front of him, and Draco opened one eyelid and did a double take at Hermione—his Hermione—standing above him, her hair even more of a mess than usual, one of her peep-toe heels broken.

He was on his feet in a matter of seconds.

"Hermione," He breathed, pausing for a moment before slowly reaching out with one hand to grab her wrist. She let him and he took it as a good sign, tugging her closer to him as he took in her features one more, wondering why he never seemed to be able to remember her properly.

"Ninety two days," She murmured, looking horribly guilty.

"For you," He said, his voice a bit gruff, "I'd wait forever."

Her smile at that was small, but it made him catch his breath anyway, though he'd never admit it. He pulled her closer still and went to press his lips against hers, but she ducked at the last moment, resulting in him kissing the area in between her eyebrows. He looked at her, questions in his eyes.

"I'm sorry I made you wait at all." She murmured, casting her eyes low, the brown orbs he loved so much widening when she caught sight of his tattered sleeping bag, his wand laying atop it.

"I'm sorry I gave you reason to," He shrugged and she smiled faintly before slowly, almost hesitantly, looking up at him from under her lashes. He gazed at her, unable to speak. He could hardly believe she was forgiving him.

And slowly—oh so slowly—she leaned up, pressing her lips against his in a chaste kiss.

Draco wanted more, but he hardly wanted it to happen in front of all of the people who'd stopped in their steps to watch.

"Let's go home, yeah?" He murmured and her eyes darted away from his face to their audience, her cheeks colouring.

"Please," She breathed and he bent down quickly to gather his wand, vanishing his sleeping bag and the _Prophet_, nodding once in thanks to Florean who was watching with a bit of a proud look on his face from the window.

Draco held out his hand and Hermione took it, and the two of them Apparated back to their flat.

She could just imagine the headline tomorrow.

_**The Man Has Moved**_.

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**Right? Isn't it fluffy? I do hope you enjoyed this fuzzball of a fic. And if you did, reviewwww. Please? :)**


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